sewing, knitting, and embroidery, and comfortable camp chairs that can be lightly lifted by the children and carried here and there about the room. Let the chairs, in fact let everything be strong and comfortable in this room. A heavy man is often put to great inconvenience because the chairs at his disposal are too flimsy to bear his weight. There are countless stories told of the Rev. Phillips Brooks, and men of his build, who dare not laugh at a dinner party lest their chairs resolve themselves into kindling wood at the first mirthful shake. In my own parlor there is one chair deep, broad, and of marvelous strength, bought with an eye to the needs of a friendly neighbor of grand dimensions. “This is a chair that Mr. B. can’t break,” said the kindly donor who had witnessed the collapsing of ordinary parlor chairs under his ponderous weight. Remember that no chair should be expected to do service that has not connecting rungs between the legs. There should be, also, a lounge or sofa in this room, with ample pillow, not a round horse-hair cylinder, but something useful, restful, and not too fine. Let the color be as perfect as may be, but if the material of which it is made be really too splendid for daily use, its glories should be veiled behind a strong, washable tidy. I have seen a gray linen square or towel, with drawn work at the ends, such as costs fifty cents, perhaps, at the linen shops, with a few long-stemmed poppies bending together in a row at one end, wrought in outline, with the familiar legend, “We are all nodding, nid, nid, nodding,” running sleepily down the center. That had just sentiment enough, and art enough for its place and use. Tidies are mere clutter if not intended to be brushed against and used. Paintings on blue satin, decked out with lace, are out of taste in any room, however fine, and out of place on any chair. No chair should be too daintily dressed out to be sat upon; and no painting should so hang as to invite shoulders clad in black broadcloth to rub themselves against it. “Tidies” or “chair backs,” if used at all, should be of a firm material, not easily crumpled, should be firmly attached, should give off little or no lint, and should be washed when they are soiled, or thrown away. They are better when off the white. There should be a wrap of some sort, afghan, Mexican or army blanket, railway rug or shawl thrown over the foot of the sofa, with which to cover up the invalid of the household, or any one who is tempted to lounge awhile. Other sitting room comforts, though not essentials, are a sewing table, stand or basket with drawers or pockets attached, for the convenience of needlewomen, a portable screen, two-leaved and not too large, that can shut off draughts from rheumatic shoulders, and an occasional hassock or footstool—“crickets” our grandmothers called them in New England.